Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Her father walked over to the saddle. “Fine finish here, Master Good.” He ran his finger over the invisible seam on the cantle, then traced the neat line of stitches on the pommel. Fine stitching was a hallmark of a master craftsman; he had taught Ann as much.

  “Thank you, Master Miller,” the saddler said, with a hint of smugness.

  Dr. Loftin admired the saddle for a moment. “Samuel,” he said—he and her father were already on a first-name basis— “I’m sure Jacob would like to see your work as well. Perhaps we can send one of the apprentices for the saddle at my home.”

  “You brought a saddle with you?” Jacob Good raised his brows at her father. “I thought you were building the new O’Hara saddle from tree to finish in my workshop.”

  “I am,” her father said. “The one Dr. Loftin refers to is a saddle I made two years ago, from that fine piece of leather you sent. Mrs. O’Hara’s groom brought it over to serve as a size model for the new one. It’s for the same mount, so I can use its measurements.”

  “I see.” Good turned toward the barn and raised his voice. “Boy!”

  Through the door to the barn came the apprentice Ann had seen earlier, along with an invisible cloud of odor. She was embarrassed to see Mabel wrinkling her nose.

  “Boy, we need Master Miller’s saddle from the doctor’s house. Go get it, quick now.”

  It did not seem right for him to call the young man “boy,” as if he were a child. Ann noticed the contrast between the apprentice’s clothes, so ragged and worn that they had no real color, and the crisp new tailoring of Master Good’s coat. She began to dislike the saddler.

  The apprentice went out, expressionless.

  “Then the new saddle will be similar?” Master Good asked her father.

  “They’re both sidesaddles, but she wishes me to lower the pommel horn, as increasing age has made it difficult to mount.”

  They discussed the design of sidesaddles then moved to harnesses and the merits of rounded leatherwork versus the traditional flat-stitched pieces. Ann and the girls stood aside while the doctor waited patiently, asking an occasional question about any unfamiliar words he heard from the saddlers.

  The apprentice came back, bearing the saddle over his arms as carefully as if it were glass. His head was down, his attention riveted on the gorgeous floral patterns worked into the red-brown leather of the saddle flaps. Ann wanted to smile. She was convinced that her father hand-tooled leather better than anyone else in the country, though he denied that compliment. Obviously, Good’s apprentice knew the quality of the work he cradled before him.

  Master Good saw it too, but instead of displaying the subdued awe of his apprentice, his face tightened. “You did this work?”

  “Yes,” her father said. She sensed the discomfort behind his simple response. Anyone could see that Good was not overwhelmed by collegial respect, but instead was subtly hostile.

  “Admirable,” Good said without warmth. “Place it on one of the racks.”

  The apprentice obeyed, still treating the saddle with great care, and turned to go.

  “Wait,” his master said. The young man froze, face averted.

  “Master Miller, I will be too busy to assist you in your work,” Good said. “But this boy will give you any aid that you require, including any tools you may need.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Master Good,” her father said. “And, young man, as we are to work together, I would like to know your name.”

  The apprentice remained silent, but looked at his master.

  Good answered for him. “This is Will Hanby.”

  “I am glad of your assistance, Will,” Ann’s father said. “If your stitching is half as fine as your master’s, I may enlist your help in that area.”

  Will. The letters . . .

  “Will . . .” Ann was horrified to realize she had said it aloud in the shock of discovery. “Will you excuse us? It’s getting too cold for the girls.”

  What a sad excuse for a subterfuge. She was almost as embarrassed by the stupidity of her recovery as by the mistake itself. Master Good, her father, and the apprentice stared at her. Her cheeks flamed under their scrutiny; she was sure she was crimson.

  “Of course, you must go warm up,” Good said, opening the door. “I’ll show you and the doctor out while Mr. Miller speaks to the boy about the necessary supplies.”

  As they filed out of the saddlery room, the apprentice regarded them quizzically, apparently unaware of the line of dirt that ran along his strong jawline.

  His glance lingered on her. She looked away in discomfort, but when she glanced back at him, he was still looking at her, his dark eyes questioning. She hurried out without looking back.

  She had this young man’s letters—his mother’s precious words. She must find a way to be alone with him soon, so she could give them to him. He might be angry with her for reading them, but the letters would still be of comfort.

  She did not think she had ever seen a young man so clearly in need of comfort.

  Ten

  8th March 1826

  THE PIGS HAD ESCAPED AGAIN. FROM INSIDE THE BARN, Will heard the telltale snorting and squealing punctuated by shouts from Master Good and others in the yard.

  He latched the horse’s stall and ran out the door. Dr. Loftin attempted to herd the white sow back through his gate, but she would not leave her eight piglets, which had scattered across the Goods’ property in all directions. Master Good stalked along his property line with the puffed-up, false geniality that promised bad things to come, later, when the doctor was not present.

  The back door of Dr. Loftin’s house flew open, and the two little Miller girls ran out, faces lit with the excitement of the chase.

  “We’ll help you, Doctor!” the older one said, while the little one laughed and ran past her. They rushed after the little piglets, trotting in complex spirals, darting behind barrels and tools, enjoying the game.

  “That’s quite all right, girls!” Dr. Loftin shouted to catch their attention through the chaos. “Let the piglets settle down.” But the middle sister was intent on reaching for a fleeing piglet only inches ahead of her, and the littlest sister had actually caught one by the hind leg and was holding on for dear life as it kicked to free itself.

  Will hurried over to the little girl and grabbed the pig, picking it up despite its struggles. As he turned to bring it back to the doctor’s property, the oldest Miller girl came out of the Loftin house, her face dismayed. She hoisted her red skirts to run toward her sisters, wisps of brown hair flying around her face. “Susan! Mabel!” she called.

  Will kept a straight face as he passed her with the piglet grunting in his arms. He dumped it in the doctor’s pig run, which was secure. The doctor let his pigs run free sometimes, which was why they escaped through his property fence. But Will was glad the doctor let them run free. It was better than the nasty sty where Master Good penned his pigs.

  “Loo-cy!” the doctor called, making a clucking noise with his tongue. The white sow raised her head and looked at him. Her little tail wagged like a dog’s. She was a very smart pig and a valuable brood sow. But she would not leave her piglets, even for her owner.

  Skirt billowing, Miss Miller ran across the freezing yard toward the middle sister, who had her piglet pinned down and was holding it with fierce determination. “Let go, Susan!” the pretty young woman said.

  “But he’ll get away!”

  Miss Miller hesitated, then knelt down, her skirt crunching into folds. She reached for the piglet.

  “Miss Miller! Your dress!” Dr. Loftin called out, raising a hand as if to stop her.

  She ignored him, seized the piglet in a truss-hold by both pairs of legs, and whisked it upside down. She marched to the doctor, who took it from her with a wry grimace as it expelled a blob from its nether parts.

  Another piglet stood at bay against the barn. Will scooped it up and walked toward the pig run. The doctor called Lucy again, and this time the sow p
eered over at the three piglets on the Loftin side of the fence. She walked back through the gate and headed for the run, and one by one, the other five piglets swiveled their little heads and trotted nimbly after their mother.

  “My apologies, Master Good,” Dr. Loftin said. “We’ll find that hole and fix it before I let them out again.”

  “I’d be much obliged, Doctor,” the master said, with a bizarre death’s-head grin that made Will want to smash his teeth in. He could not abide the way the master ranted on at length in private about the doctor’s pigs but was all ingratiating smiles to the doctor’s face. He knew his master was jealous of the doctor’s pigs—their fine breeding, the prolific sow, the way people came even from across the river to admire them and talk to the doctor about the piglets. Most of all, his master hated the doctor’s “soft” treatment of the animals.

  Will himself quite liked the doctor’s pigs and stopped to scratch their jowls and stroke the piglets when he thought he could do so unobserved by his master or mistress. The white pigs were much better tempered than his master’s pigs, which were surly and restless from their confinement in their own filth.

  The Miller girls walked back to the doctor’s property, the littlest one crowing to the middle one, “Did you see me hold that pig?”

  “Yes, but he almost got away,” the middle one said. “I held mine all by myself.”

  “I held mine all by myself too—” the little one said, indignant.

  “Girls! Shush,” their older sister said. The excitement had left high color in her face, brightening her eyes. “I’m sorry if we created more difficulties for you, Master Good,” she said.

  “Not at all, miss,” he said in his false jovial way, as if he were the neighborhood benefactor. “Now, we’d best be getting back to work, eh, boy? Time’s a-wasting.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will stole a glance at Miss Miller. She was looking at him with pity—he could not stand that. He had seen the way the littlest girl wrinkled her nose at him earlier. They thought him beneath them. He walked back to the barn and slammed the door behind him.

  The barn’s dark privacy was welcome, but in only a moment the door banged open. Master Good had followed him.

  “What’s that, boy? You’re not showing a bit of temper, are you?” His voice was deceptively quiet.

  Will’s skin crawled, and he tried with all his might to blanch the anger from his face and substitute innocence. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” He wanted to retch, but he knew his master would have his hide at the slightest excuse.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Good crossed to the stall Will had been cleaning. “Still not finished here?”

  “No, sir. I will be soon.”

  “What did you get from Miller about his techniques?”

  “I just listened, sir. We only talked for a few minutes.”

  “You’ll have to do better. You only have a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will knew he probably shouldn’t say it, but he did anyway. “Sir, I may be able to copy some fitting techniques, but it won’t be possible for me to learn his hand-tooling in that time.”

  Good pressed his lips together and went white around the mouth. A lump of ice formed in Will’s throat. Good paced past him. Then the world reeled and Will was down on his knees, vision blurred. He rolled to the ground, half-aware. The master had hit him with something. He didn’t know what. A dull ache began on the side of his head. He knew it would be much worse in a minute.

  Dimly he heard the master’s voice. “Don’t question me, boy. Miller said himself that your stitching was fine on that other saddle. But if you can’t learn to tool the leather as well as he can, then you’ll have to discover a way to make his work less attractive to his customer. Perhaps his billet straps are weak. Do you understand me?”

  Will groaned. His eyes still would not focus, though the barn’s spinning was slowing.

  The barn door rattled as Good left. Will raised his fingers to the side of his head, where he could feel a huge lump already forming. A sharp sting revealed a break in the skin. His fingers were slick and red when he held them up close enough to focus on them.

  He would live. Tom’s head had bled worse than this when the master hit him with the poker two weeks ago. He thought vaguely that he would have to wash the blood off before dinner or he would get another thrashing.

  But as the room slowed to a standstill, the ache grew and spread. He lay immobile on his side with his eyes closed, clutching his head in his hands as if to hold it together.

  He thought he might like to die then. There was only pain, no joy in this miserable, dishonest life—there had been none for years. His brother would be ashamed of him, could he see him now, just as the Miller girls had been disgusted. That was why he had not written Johnny for a year, and his brother’s letters had gradually ceased. Will did nothing of worth—he had no future without a reputation to start a business. He did not even have honor, but had turned into a cringing shadow ready to do what was necessary to get by.

  Part of him wanted to kill his master, even if he would hang for it. But there was fear down deep inside him, ever since the first time the master had beaten him so badly. That was only a couple of weeks after his arrival in Pittsburgh. Will had sobbed and begged for mercy, his eyes swelling shut, his nose pouring blood, rib and fingers broken. It wasn’t the pain, but the degradation of begging, his own weakness—as if the master had reached a skeletal hand down into Will’s soul and closed on it like a vice so it would never be his own again. The memory claimed him—it showed him who he really was, who the master had shown him he was—a spineless beggar and a slave. A cloud of nausea filled him and he wished for nothingness.

  He heard the barn door open and close. Now he had to get up. Master Good had no mercy.

  But instead of Good’s serpentine whisper, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

  Light footsteps approached and cool fingers grazed his forehead.

  For a moment, he remembered his mother and let himself fall back into a dream that she once again sat beside him. He could almost hear her soft humming and smell the honeysuckle that bloomed outside the window the last summer she had been at home, when she would tell stories and then sing him to sleep, half cradling him in her arms.

  But the smell was not right—it was not honeysuckle, but instead the faintest fragrance of roses and warm skin.

  “Can you open your eyes?” she whispered.

  He cracked them open. It was Miss Miller, her pretty face pale with horror. He closed them again.

  “Did your master do this?” Her voice quavered a little. He felt another gentle touch on his head. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

  He heard a rustle as the sound of her footsteps moved away, then returned. Coolness touched the sting in his scalp. She was gently swabbing at the cut, holding something very cold on it. The throbbing eased a little. He moistened his dry lips so that he could speak.

  “You must go.” He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the disgust that must fill her at the sight of his bloody, filthy state. “It will be worse if he finds you.”

  “How can he do this?” she said. Then after a pause, “I have something for you. I will give it to you when you are better. Perhaps it will help you in some way.”

  “Go,” he groaned, afraid Master Good might return at any moment. A tiny warm droplet fell on his cheek. A tear. A feather-touch brushed it away.

  Then with another rustle she was gone, and he heard the door close.

  He knew she was wrong and that nothing could help him. But the warmth of her tear lingered on his face and slipped down inside him to the dark, empty places, where it carried for a moment the honeysuckle smell of summer.

  Eleven

  ANN SLIPPED IN THE DOOR OF DR. LOFTIN’S HOME, grateful that the hallway was empty. Will’s bloodied and sad face lingered in her mind’s eye; it wrung her heart and forced tears to her eyes. She still clutched her handbag with Will’s letters inside. They would have to wait
for another day.

  Hoping she could get to her room unnoticed, she hurried down the hallway into the front foyer. But as she passed the drawing room, Dr. Loftin’s voice came through the open door.

  “Miss Miller?”

  She froze, arms crossed, head down to hide her dismay. She did not want to stop, but she could not be rude to her host.

  “Is something wrong?” She heard the rustle of a newspaper, then his leather soles tapped toward her across the marble floor. She lifted her head to see him standing beside her, his brows knit together in concern, his wrinkles deepened around his eyes.

  “Master Good is—” A sob rose in her throat and kept her from saying any more. She covered her face with her hands.

  “What is it? What has happened?” The doctor’s voice was soft. The comforting strength of his arm circled her shoulders, steadying her.

  “Master Good is beating his apprentice. I just found him on the ground in the barn. He was barely conscious.” She took the handkerchief he had produced for her, wiped her eyes, and dabbed at her nose.

  The concern on his face gave way to surprise. His lips parted as if to ask a question, then he paused.

  Her face warmed—of course the doctor wondered why she had been in the barn, but he was too much the gentleman to ask.

  His face sagged in sorrow. “I suspected as much. But Will has never said anything. Nor do I think he has any recourse under the terms of his indenture.”

  “But there must be something we can do for him.”

  “I don’t know that there is. It’s a sad fact of indenture that some masters abuse their apprentices. The law turns as blind an eye as if it were a father beating his son. The cause is immaterial; Master Good can say what he wishes about the reason for it, and any judge will believe him.”

  “But he could kill him.”

  “Yes, and would probably get off scot-free for that also. Dead apprentices tell no tales.”